Pasta
by FiftyShadesOfAroused
Summary: Two men bump into each other on a rainy evening. Love blossoms


It was a bitter and rainy London evening. Lestrade was wet. wet and spicy. his suit was moist. moist. moist. his grey salt and pepper hair plastered to his forehead. moist forehead.  
Mycroft came up to Lestrade and swung his umbrella in a sultry fashion even though he should actually be using it but fuck the police and that he would. "Hello...Greg~ " he said, making sure 'Greg' sounded extra spicy. He knew he liked it like that.

" Hello, /my/croft." Greg said. He just chilled there because he is an inspector, dammit. He needed to look cool. bitches love cool men. his eyes flickered down to the shaft in Mycroft's hand and did a wanton moan. "You should use that umbrella." he said seriously.  
Mycroft tutted in a sexy fashion because he could and his diet was working so fuck you. he noticed greg noticing his umbrella and smiled. When he had spent time in his mind bakery, he figured this would work. he filed his moan thing away for later in the cupcake rack or whatever the fuck it's called screw you. "use it...are you sure?" he leaned forward awkwardly."Are you really /sure/?"  
lestrade's breath came hoarse and ragged. "you're damn right i'm sure." he reached out to touch mycroft's umbrella but accidentally touched Mycroft's hand instead and drew his hand away awkwardly, blushing like a school girl. he cleared his throat like a rugged man. "Have you lost weight? You look nice. your figure, i mean."  
mycroft noticed and stuff. because he is a holmes boy, fuck you. when lestrade accidentally touched his hand, mycroft drew back suddenly and yelped. he wasn't ready for this sudden move. he had to consider this in his bakery. when lestrade cleared his throat like a rugged mayun, mycroft secretly thought it sounded feminine and kawaii but swooned anyhow. "i know i look nice. and i have lost weight. you...look nice too. like you look nice? yes."

lestrade noticed this yelp and gripped mycroft's umbrella firmly, pressing down the latch causing it to open dramatically with a pleasant 'fwoomp' sound. "there." he handed it back to mycroft slowly… oh so slowly. "i look nice?" greg asked like a loser. " thank you, mister holmes." he stood there all moist. suit dripping like a slut. no wait that sounds awkward. he admired mycroft's swirly hair from affar. "can i.. can i just…?" he motioned under the umbrella.

mycroft decided he would have a firm talking to with lyla ( his favorite umbrella, mind you ) after this. how dare she open for another man? even if he mentioned how one day lestrade would be in their life and living like larry with them? i digress. he took lyla back and dramatically held her over his head, like that jackson chap holding his baby over the balcony. he watched lestrade's response to his thoughtful compliment. was nice not good? was he no good at compliments? shut the fuck up of course he was. "no, no!" he said suddenly, leaning forward in a forward fashion. "call me mycroft~ " he tugged lestrade under lyla with him. "you can."

lestrade stood there; mind in a complete blank as mycroft went over his internal umbrella struggles. "mycroft." lestrade said, testing it in his mouth, nevermind he already said the name earlier in the conversation. because that is not important. "as you wish." he said like the farm boy in the princess bride. lestrade fucking loved that movie. /in secret/. lestrade's kokoro went doki doki as he was tugged under the umbrella, being protected from the rain. this reminded him of this one homocide he investigated that included a umbrella lodged in a man's temple. long story short it was the maid. sherlock figured it out. he looked over to mycroft, shoulder lightly brushing against mycroft's arm getting it wet and shit. greg decided to look chill again and shoved his hands into his pockets. "what brings you out here in this weather?"

mycroft also ignored the fact that lestrade already said his name and acted like this was the first time, swooning like a little girl who had a crush on her green brother's friend and writes about him in code in her diary. casually straightening himself up once he got this out of the way, mycroft shrugged. "i think the better question is what brings /you/ out here in this weather? and you don't even have lyla." mycroft didn't care if that made no sense and casually shifted the subject to lestrade to avoid mentioning that he had followed him because fuck the police once again.

greg stared at mycroft with an intense gaze. "i went grocery shopping for some canned tomatoes." he held up the can as if it was placed in his hand all of this time. but this was a lie, of course. greg went out to stare at a shop window displaying really fancy umbrellas in a mental battle on whether or not to buy one for mycroft. and engrave his cell phone number on it. so he would never lose it. and that would be a really subtle way to show he was interested, right? right. and if mycroft wasn't interested in greg, he could just shrug it off and then roll around and sob quietly into his bed. "wait. who is lyla?"

mycroft stared at greg with the most intense of intense gazes. he placed his hand over the tomatoes as well and almost giggled when their fingers touched for a second. but he had more self control than that, thank you very much but no thank you and return address. "i see. i hope you put those canned tomatoes to good use." he said, and casually tacked on a whispered "think of me" for some reason. he stared at greg blankly when he asked who lyla was, and then he slowly looked up, as if this was explanation enough.

greg almost fell into the dark pools of abyss and mystery that was mycroft's corneas as they both started with throbbing and billowing intensity. lestrade could smell it in the air. chanel no 5 and rain. his tummy wiggled when mycroft touched his tomatoes. it had been so long since someone had last touched them. he ached for more. "i will make pasta." he said lamely. " would you like to join me?" oh wait shit that was so uncool greg nobody ever says that fuck. lestrade assumed lyla was a dead ex girlfriend or something. he was sure he remembered finding a trollop dead on the street named lyla.

mycroft hoped the chanel no 5 wasn't too strong. he only sprayed it on every surface of his home and rolled around in it for a few hours before going out. it's not like he overdid it or anything. he's a fucking genius okay. had mycroft not been so distracted by creepily staring at greg he would have noticed greg's wiggling tummy somehow because that's how the holmes bitches do okay screw you but alas. pasta. greg would make pasta. mycroft hated pasta. he opened his mouth to voice this opinion, but then he asked if he wanted to join him. "is it going to be like a date?" he casually ignored the fact that his voice cracked and changed tactics. "i mean i would love to ignore what i said first." mycroft realized he was nervous and casually looked up at lyla for advice. he scowled when she gave him none.

lestrade's scent was only enhanced by his manly musk. inspectors were just really rugged like that, you know? well shit. mycroft asked if it was a date. well. "no…. just dinner. i mean…" he laughed like a mentally insane person at an asylum. how the shit was he acting so stupid? he punched mycroft playfully in the shoulder. " we are friends." he attempted a nonchalant smile but it resembled something more like constipation. he looked at mycroft looking upwards… probably reminiscing about that dead trollop. greg looked at his wrist pretending there was a watch on it and that he was casually checking the time.

mycroft stared at lestrade blankly and just casually hid the fact that his feels were in pain. of course it wasn't a date. his diet wasn't going /that/ well. he made a mental broken emo heart and gripped lyla tighter. "friends?" he asked, surprised. "are you sure?" he punched lestrade right back in the shoulder, but in a less friendly fashion because he was angry. all that chanel no 5 and stalking for nothing. he looked up at lyla again and made angry, desperate motions. she still didn't reply. "bitch." he mumbled, shaking his head and turning to look at lestrade casually like it was completely normal to talk to your umbrella.

the punch had caught him off guard. it hurt and he was sure it was going to be a nasty bruise later. apparently the notion of inviting mycroft over to his house for dinner as a friend was insulting to the more beautiful holmes brother. "i mean… unless you want it to be a date." a thousand fire crackers had been set off in his body and his fingers and toes were tingling. he should seriously get that checked out it doesn't sound healthy. the silent argument between a man and his umbrella was an average day in the life. "did you call me a bitch?" greggy-kins asked, recoiling in hurt.

mycroft just casually in an awkward sort of way placed his hand over greg's shoulder and didn't let his expression show whether he wanted it to be a date or not. obviously he did though. he wore chanel no 5. ordinary people are stupid. he looked up at lyla and they laughed together at the thought. "i do." he patted greg's arm repeatedly and just sort of ignored the thought that he was probably injuring him or something because fuck you he was beginning to sweat. and sweat was for ugly girls like gretchen. he nearly slapped greggy-kins when he asked him if he had called him a bitch. didn't he know of the connection between a man and his umbrella? terrible. "no. i was talking to lyla." he sighed, as if having to explain it physically pained him.

"oh." lestrade hung there like an abandoned plastic bag, kind of inflating in the breeze. he hid is obvious enthusiasm and placed his hand on mycroft's hand on his shoulder. he ignored the throbbing pain as the holmes patted him. inspectors learn how to do these things. you have to to work for the scotland yard. duh. "of course. lyla." greg still pretty much no fucking clue about lyla but whatever because he was totally going to get some ass tonight. the last time he had a piece of gorgeous fine ass was five years ago with his ex. she bit a lot. it was rather unpleasant but she made great pasta. lestrade thought pasta was fuckign rad. hopefully mycroft enjoyed pasta. he tilted his head in whatever the fuck the direction to his abode was. " we can go to my place now?"


End file.
